Pain
by venoz
Summary: For never had death seemed so beautiful as it did then, laid before her on the sidewalk in the shell of a single man." A short story of Draco taken from Hans Christian Anderson's 'The Little Match Girl'.


**Pain**

_This is a small finished bit of a collection of fairy tale-esque stories that I've been working on to put together. I just felt like posting this up to see what people thought of the writing style and if any more was wanted. **Disclaimer**: Hints at slash, although not much, and is also taken from Hans Christian Anderson's 'The Little Match Girl'._

It was cold on that night in December; iced weather that bit at your skin and tore through your breath. You have never felt this cold before, in your small houses warmed by fire and heaters; that cold that froze so badly it burned. With damp clothes Draco walked down the street, one arm hanging limp at his side, drenched with hardening blood and he grimaced with every step he took, for each was accompanied with pain that shot through him and seized his muscles.

His only comprehensible thought was that he needed to get back to Harry before it was too late.

That, and _Oh, God this is painful…_

But his mind became numb and he didn't notice the darkening sky or that the shops were closing and not a single person regarded him. For they did not care for Death Eaters, these people, and he certainly looked as one with his dark, billowing robes and hardened mask. They turned their unkind faces away from him, ignoring his injury and discomfort, and quietly locked their doors as though nothing was going on.

They knew, I am sure, of the current war taking place and the fact that there was certainly a battle occurring at that very moment in time. They did not know the torture of this man; they didn't care for his toils. For he was not a diligent Death Eater in any respect but a spy for these that shun him.

And he was also very important to their wonderful, heroic Boy Who Lived.

Had they known this, perhaps they would have helped – or perhaps not, for these people have gone cold since the beginning of the war – but had they, this story may have had a different ending.

It began to snow, eventually, and this did not bring luck to Draco as he now stumbled in a white mass higher than his shaking ankles. His had no idea of his location, nor how he'd find what he sought for, but he was persistent and it wasn't until his knees finally gave way that he stopped.

With no energy left to support his limbs he was trapped, so he wrapped his arms around himself and shook; with anger, with cold, and with grief. For he knew Harry could not be saved.

_Oh, Harry…_

And he had tried to warn him, hadn't he? Hadn't he come all this way only to collapse and not make it to his goal? It hadn't been enough, and he wished now that there was someone to help or at least that he had his wand, but it had been taken when he'd been tortured and he could only imagine what had happened to it.

It was dark now, and the only light came from the moon which was a pale, silver splotch in a deep blue sky speckled with stars. He tried to ease the cold as best as he could, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. Once he had been told to think of warmth when cold, for your mind would be tricked into believing it was true. Could he do that? Trick his mind to dwindle the pain?

He tried it, and pushed into his thoughts images of fire, not a fierce fire of uncontrolled blazing heat, but of the delicious warmth of the hearth on a winter day. And he thought of the soft, rich rug that lie before it and he'd rest against its fabric and breath in the warm smell of cooking that filled the air around him as a blanket was draped over his shoulders.

Then a voice broke him out of his mind, but he could still feel that warmth for before him stood the very person he'd been searching for.

"What are you doing down there?" this person said, it was Harry and Draco felt as though his world was shattering painfully with the happiness he felt.

"Where the hell have you been?" he said, but it did not hold the usual spite those words often did to others who heard them And then Harry smiled, and you would have loved that smile could you see it, for it generated compassion and warmth to such a degree that it washed over Draco like a heated bath after standing in cold, beating rain.

"It doesn't matter," Draco cried out. "I was looking for you, they're coming – they haven't found you yet have they? When they find you they'll…"

Harry was watching him sadly; his face was one of sorrow, beauty and that of resignation; of knowledge.

"They didn't find you, did they?" Draco was worried, for he knew that Harry had been in battle too and that he'd been weak and such a person would not be able to fight off a dozen powerful wizards – there simply wasn't a way. This cold boy was not usually one for worried words, sarcasm was his way of life even after his switch, but he was so very worried and pained that he didn't care about anything any more that hadn't to do with Harry.

Harry held out a pale hand to him quietly and then said for Draco to come with him, for they'd have to go soon and really, _Draco, you're going to like it there. I'm certain._ _I don't know myself, but they told me before I came to you. It's never cold there, and you'll never be in pain, you'll never feel hunger, or that pang of loneliness that you get by yourself. _

You should know that Draco liked the sound of this place and it seemed so much better than where he was now, especially with Harry to guide the way. So he took that outstretched hand and felt that beautiful warmth spreading up through his arm swirling into his chest like a huge bubble of glowing heat; pure white like the snow that surrounded him.

The next morning the shop owner came out and tripped on the outstretched hand of the man in front of her window. And this man's mask had fallen away to show smooth, pale skin with fair blonde hair the fell into his face softly and covered closed eyes. She gasped at the body, for never had death seemed so beautiful as it did then, laid before her on the sidewalk in the shell of a single man. He was suspended in time, almost life-like, for it did not seem as though his death had yet tolled on him, but he could no longer be living for there was no breath and he was cold and stiff against the wall.

And her eyes filled with tears and her chest with wonderment, for even in every person alive, she'd never seen someone look so happy.


End file.
